


The Ice Is Getting Thinner

by visiblemarket



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Break ups and make ups, Dishonesty, F/M, Guilt, M/M, OC deaths, bad relationships becoming good relationships, but along the way, but with some borrowed elements from it, happy endings eventually, lots of reasons, not AoS compliant, other terrible things, possibly dubcon read notes for details, questionable behavior at SHIELD, relationships between agents are against protocol for a reason guys, started as an assignment but now it's real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson makes bad decisions, Clint Barton falls in love, and Natasha Romanov needs better friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ice Is Getting Thinner

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt found on avengerkink, which can be found below.

Forty-two years ago, Philip J. Coulson's mother told him that good little boys did not tell lies.

*

"Wow," Stark says, momentarily, blissfully silenced, and then he grins. "Forget it, Jake, it's Chinatown?"

Phil seriously regrets opening the door, but what's done is done. "Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Stark?"

" _Mr. Stark_? Oh, man, we are _so_ beyond that, Coulson. _Phil_." He pushes his way into the apartment, and Phil could stop him, obviously, but it doesn't take long for him to realize that he doesn't really want to. "Because look, I have got _wine_ ," he holds up a bag, and then drops it on Phil's coffee table. There's the heavy thud of thick glass on worn wood. "And I have got _news_ ," he waves his hand, and then gestures at the tablet under his arm. "And best of all I have _classified government data_ that _you_ are going to _clarify_ for me, because _holy fucking shit_ , Phil, I can't even _believe_ you." 

Phil sighs, and shuts the door. "All I have are mugs."

Stark's manic grin wavers for a second, but he shrugs it off. "Fine. Whatever. Quality is quality."

*

Thirty years ago, a week before summer vacation ended, Phil Coulson and his best friend drove out of town in his parents' car and spent about a half hour in the backseat, not talking. After that, it was only the fact that his stepfather would have reported the car as stolen if he wasn't back by curfew that kept him, kept them both, from getting the hell out of dodge and just driving. Till they ran out of gas, or money, or both, and settled down somewhere along the I-94 without ever looking back.

Most of the time, he knew better than to think it would have been anything other than a complete disaster. 

Sometimes, mostly during his senior year, but more than once when he was thinking a foreign sky was the last thing he'd ever see, Phil would wished he'd done it anyway.

*

Thirty years ago, Phil Coulson learned that keeping secrets and telling lies were pretty much the same thing.

*

"What do you want me to say?" It's half an hour and three mugs full of very expensive wine later, and Phil's barely buzzed, just enough that the pain in his sinuses is a dull throb. Tony's a couple of mugs ahead of him, and looks glassy-eyed and like he doesn't quite remember why he's there.

"Start from the beginning?" Tony says, probably on the principle that it's vague enough that it doesn't matter what the actual answer is. It would be phenomenally easy to get out of this. Tony probably won't even remember, and the next time, Phil can just not open the door. 

It is, however, entirely possible that he's more than just buzzed. 

He leans his head against the back of the couch and thinks that the beginning is a distant, painful thing. That might even be what he says.

*

Fifteen years ago, Phil Coulson was becoming intimately acquainted with survivor's guilt.

More than half of his colleagues were dead. He was glad not to be. He mourned the loss of good men and women, some of whom he'd known, most of whom he hadn't. 

And, silently, privately, not so proudly, he bemoaned his slow recovery time, his mandated desk duty, and his current position. Files, names, options ran together in his head and his fingers itched with unrealized potential. He made decisions about people's futures and lives and freedom without ever meeting them, shaking their hands, actually seeing them in action. But times were desperate and the Director was anxious and Phil had his orders. 

Fifteen years ago, a file came across Phil Coulson's desk, and he made a choice no one in their right mind would have made. 

It's one of the few things from that time in his life that he could never, would never regret.

*

"Clint Barton," Nick said, and the pen in Phil's hand trembled for a moment before he regained the good sense to put it to paper again.

"How'd that go?" he kept his tone mild, and didn't hide a smile at Nick's obvious frustration. 

"Amenable _my_ ass, Coulson. I had to chase that little punk across three rooftops before he'd even let me make the damn pitch." 

Phil snorted. It wasn't dignified, and he would pay for it later, but he couldn't help it. "Good to have someone around who can give you a run for your money," he said. Glanced up. Nick was giving him a Look. "Other than me." 

The Look continued. Phil sighed. "Sir?"

"I do not have time for this kind of bullshit, Agent Coulson."

"Well then, _sir_ , I suggest you learn to delegate." Which he shouldn't have said. Wouldn't have said, had he not been pissed about _Agent Coulson_ and the _sirs_ and the fact that had it not been for stray bullet at a moment of distraction and the resulting four months of recovery it cost him, it might not be Deputy Director Nick Fury and Special Agent Phil Coulson right now, it might be the other way around.

Nick Fury, one of the few people in the world he trusted, probably the only one Phil considered a real friend, shook his head, got up, and walked out. 

Phil was a terrible person. He'd mostly come to terms with it. He was usually pretty good at hiding it. But he had a feeling one of these days, karma was going to bite him in the ass. 

He wasn't wrong.

*

Barton was on his first mission back in the field.

So was about half of what was left of SHIELD. He wasn't even the agent-in-charge, and it grated, a little, in the back of his mind, but mostly he was just grateful to be out in what was technically fresh air but was actually Louisiana swampland. The air was fresh in the sense that it was full of living things that kept biting him, at least.

He was a mile from the target, suiting up with the rest of the team, when Agent Connors, currently his SO, signaled him over. 

"Sir?"

"We good to go?" 

"Sir," he said, with a nod, and then remembered. "We should check in with..." he waved a hand at the general direction of the treetops. 

Connors face went momentarily tight, pained really, then eased back to the cool professionalism that was his most admirable feature. He grabbed a comm out of his pocket it and threw it at Phil, who should have known. He waited to roll his eyes till Connors was walking away. 

"Hawkeye," he said.

"Who the fuck is _this_?"

"Agent Coulson. What's your status?"

There's a crackle over the line, which was not a good sign. "Status is fine, in that I'm in position and ready to go."

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose. "In what way is it not fine, Hawkeye?"

There was a pause, no crackle this time. "In that I think this whole thing's a fucking trap."

"Excuse me?"

"It's a fucking trap. Sir." 

Of _course_ it was. And yet. "What is this assessment based on?"

"On? On the fact that I've been here half the fucking night, Coulson, and I've yet to see even a hint of movement out here. Not human, not animal, vegetable, mineral, nothing." 

Which could really be nothing. Maybe weapons-dealing psychopaths gave days off, leaving their main HQ completely deserted in the middle of an environment normally teeming with activity. Or it could be everything, and they'd been tipped off, bailed, and booby-trapped the entire compound to hell. Or maybe it'd be swamp creatures. Just to screw with him.

"Fine. Was there a particular reason you didn't call this in earlier?"

There was a considerably longer pause. "I am under strict orders not to initiate contact until and unless I require extraction." His tone was clipped and he was obviously imitating someone. The someone who was walking back toward Phil and making a wrap-it-up finger twirl. Phil held up a hand, and Agent Connors raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth. Phil shook his head.

"Shut it down," he said. "We're compromised." 

" _What_?"

"Barton—"

"Oh, _Barton did_ , did he?" Connors said, in the tone of a parent being told their twelve-year-old had been acting up in class again, and grabbed the comm out of his hands. "Barton!" he barked, "The hell is this about shutting down a _major operation_ we've devoted _six months_ of reconnaissance to?"

Phil didn't hear the answer, but off of Connor's expression, he couldn't imagine it was anything he wanted to hear. Or at least, it wasn't anything _Connors_ wanted to hear; _Phil_ was kind of intrigued as to what was making that vein in his temple throb quite so much. 

" _Your concerns are noted_ , Agent Barton," Connors said, his voice under control even if his face wasn't. "But we will be continuing as planned." 

"Copy that," he heard Barton say as the comm came flying toward him. He caught it again, and nodded as Connors gave the you-deal-with-this wave.

He waited a moment, watched as Connors walked away far enough to be beyond hearing distance. 

"Barton?"

"Yeah." 

"Are you sure?"

"Just doesn't feel right, sir."

"I hear you." And as strange as it seemed, Phil did. There were times when you just _knew_ , without being able to identify the specific environmental triggers that got you to the right conclusion. If he could feel that much, there was no way someone who'd survived what Clint Barton had could do so without having instincts worth trusting. He started after Connors.

"Coulson." It didn't startle him exactly, but it did surprise him, and he stopped.

"Yes?"

"You're not gonna change his mind." 

"I'll do what I can." 

There was a long enough pause that Phil thought he was done, and then there was another crackle of sound. "'kay. Wave your hand."

Though he had a very good idea, he still asked: "Why?"

"I want to know which one you are."

"We've met three times, Agent Barton."

"You gonna do it or not, man?" Obviously he was, and he did, and only a small part of him worried about this making him a target for a mentally unstable but terrifyingly proficient marksman with a grudge against authority figures. "Gotcha," Barton said, and no shots followed, so Phil figured he was safe enough for now. He started walking again, toward a now apoplectic looking Connors and the rest of the strike team.

Barton was right. He wasn't going to convince him of anything. 

Phil squared his shoulders, thought of Captain America, and said his piece anyway.

*

"Good luck, sir," was the last thing he heard from Barton before the mission went completely to shit.

Well, the last verbal thing. He figured the flaming arrow that knocked a mechanical spinning wheel of death out of the air before it decapitated him was a message of its own.

He took a breath as he watched it shudder into pieces on the ground beside him, looked up in the direction the arrow had come from, and saw nothing but trees. He nodded anyway, picked himself up, and went looking for anyone who was left.

*

Barton came to see him after, once the area had been cleared and medical arrived.

In the warm glow of the burning building behind him, with the amount of camouflage he was wearing, he looked like nothing so much as a walking strip of bark. If it hadn't been for the hunching gait and the complete unwillingness to meet his eyes, Phil wouldn't have known him at all. 

"Hadn't seen you in your—always in your suits. When we met. Before," Barton mumbled, and Phil wasn't entirely sure he'd heard it correctly because it seemed to make no sense at all. Barton seemed to notice that and rolled his eyes, momentarily seemingly like the teenager he can't have been more than five years earlier. "Why I didn't recognize you."

"Oh." He was tired, it was about all he could manage, but for Barton it seemed to be enough. He held out a hand, Phil took it, they shook, and then Phil remembered: "Thank you."

Barton shrugged and let go of his hand. "See you around, Coulson."

*

Nick was pretending to read a file when Phil came in, and continued to do so even once he'd sat down in the chair in front of his desk and cleared his throat. Another few second ticked by, and then:

"Son of a bitch's taken some kind of a shine to you."

Phil thought it was meant to startle him. He made sure to look utterly composed as he spotted Nick's eye peering over his folder, and just shrugged.

"You know how rare that is."

"I'm aware."

Nick grinned, with only a little malice. "I'm taking your advice."

"As you should," he said, snippily, because he was an idiot. The folder was flung at him, and all right, he had been a little surprised by that. He still caught it though; he'd continue to count that as a win.

He looked through the file, and then back up at Fury, who was not laughing. On the contrary, he had tented his hands under his chin and was just gazing at Phil, just daring him. He looked back down at the file.

"This is a terrible idea." 

" _Excuse me_ , Agent Coulson?"

"Nick. Honestly, this is a _terrible_ idea. You think the best way to get this kid to trust us, to trust— _me_ , is to send me in to— _this_?"

"Why is it a terrible idea?"

"Because—" He held back a noise of frustration and waved his hands anyway. "What if he finds out?"

Fury tilted his head and narrowed his eye. "Are you doubtful of your ability to keep it a secret?"

He wanted to laugh. "I'm doubtful of _SHIELD_ 's ability to keep it a secret." It was true: agents who had no problem living their entire lives as lies were totally susceptible to gossip once they were among their own. 

"This comes from me. No one else does know, or will know, what I've asked you to do." 

"Will you give it to someone else if I say no?"

Fury sighed. "I can't make any promises, but someone else probably wouldn't work. Barton's a mess, half way to bolting every time we put him out in the field. You're the only he's got any kind of rapport with—"

"Aside from you."

"I'm delegating," and Nick smiled that dangerous smile Phil was actually quite fond of, because it reminded him of Marcus and Cheese and what felt like three or four lifetimes ago. "Kid needs a friend."

"Kid needs a _therapist_." Phil was 100% certain of that, had recommended it in all the paperwork he'd put through, but he was sure Barton'd never so much as been in the same facility as one of the many very well-qualified shrinks the Division had on staff. 

"We're working on that. But in the meantime, he needs someone who'll listen to his shit and set him straight, and you already know his deal."

"Does he know I know?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"I told him."

Phil sighed. That might actually make things worse, but what was done was done and he had to deal with the facts on the ground. 

"I'll see what I can do."

"He's—"

"I'm sure I'll find him."

He left the file behind.

*

An arrow hit the wall inches from his head, and Phil blinked.

"Coulson." He didn't look particularly apologetic, but he did seem surprised, and most importantly, he was lowering his bow.

"Agent Barton," Phil turned his back to him in order to pull the arrow out, bracing a hand around the tip and doing his best not to damage anything. He walked over and handed it to Barton, who took it without looking up at him.

"How'd you find me?" 

"I looked."

"Right," Barton mumbled, shaking his head. "Fair enough." 

"You're pretty good with that thing," he said, gently.

Barton head jerked up and he gave Phil a thoroughly unimpressed look. "You know exactly how good I am."

"I'm just saying."

Barton's eyes dropped the floor again, and he turned around, focus back on the targets at the far end of the range. "Okay. Well. You want anything else?"

"Just—"

"Did Fury send you down here?" 

"No," he said; technically, he wasn't lying. 

"Hm," Barton grunted, and loosed another arrow. Phil trusted it would fly perfectly, so he watched Barton instead, the tension in his shoulders that didn't dissipate until the thud echoed back to them and even then it wasn't like he actually relaxed, just that he didn't seem taut to the point of breaking. 

"Just wanted to say thank you. Again," he kept his voice soft, and Barton hesitated before drawing another arrow. Phil turned around, heard it hit a far off target, and was almost out the door when Barton cleared his throat.

"You're...you don't...you don't fucking owe me anything, Coulson."

Phil turned around. "Never thought I did, Agent Barton." 

He laughed at that. "Okay. Whatever. Just. You know. I guess it's my job, now."

"I know." Phil shrugged. "It's kind of mine, too."

And he turned and walked out before Barton could say anything else.

*

Phil had started having lunch with Jasper Sitwell, who was fresh from the Academy but not stupid, and probably had at least 50/50 odds of surviving his first year at SHIELD. Phil wasn't sure it was a good idea to get attached _yet_ , but another couple of months and another mission or two like the shitshow in Louisiana, and he might actually admit to liking the guy. Usually, Sitwell'd stop by his office at noon, and if Phil wasn't around, then he'd leave a note with obscene and improbable drawings on Phil's door: this was a sign that he'd come back later, maybe with lunch.

Usually, Phil did not have a fidgety young archer waiting for him in his office after his 2pm strategy meeting. And archer was the first word that came to mind, at the moment, because he'd seen fit to bring his bow and quiver and armguards while on his vigil, or perhaps it was more of a stakeout.

"Hello?"

"Coulson." Barton blinked, as if he was mildly surprised at encountering Phil _inside his own office_. 

"Did you need something?"

"I—you—" he glanced down, and waved a vague hand over his bow. "You ever...?"

"Not since summer camp." Clint looked up at, eyebrow raised. "I was thirteen, and terrible."

"You wanna learn to not be terrible?"

Phil blinked. He didn't, particularly, but the slight tremble in Barton's smirk and the fact he was actually meeting his eyes told him this wasn't something to turn down lightly.

"Sure," he said, sitting down opposite Barton. 

"Yeah? You busy right now, we could—"

"I haven't had lunch," he made sure his tone was apologetic and a little disappointed, and Barton wavered for a bit before grinning.

"Okay, uh, tomorrow? Same time? I'll bring you lunch. Tomorrow, I mean, today you can...go. Get whatever. Obviously."

"Okay," Phil said, and smiled. Barton smiled back.

*

Barton kissed him.

It wasn't exactly a surprise, he'd obviously been working up to it, but it was warm, and awkward, and hesitant and Phil was a terrible person because he didn't break away immediately. Barton took that as encouragement. Manhandled him around, pulled the bow out of Phil's hand, dropped it on a bench, and then backed him up against the nearest wall while Phil was still trying to formulate an appropriate response. 

It was not exactly a shining moment, in terms of Phil's ability to think on his feet. 

But Barton was everywhere, kissing him, running his fingers over Phil's chest and arms, taking deep, shuddery breaths against him and oh, that was an opening, right. He grabbed Barton's arms and held him back, just slightly. 

"You..." Barton was smiling, at first, but then it faded as he searched Phil's features. "You kissed back," he said, with obvious reproach in his tone. Phil was not entirely sure he had, but it was possible. He couldn't let it happen again, though. 

"I can't," he said, trying to be gentle, and let go. Barton scowled at him, turned on his heel, and stalked away.

*

He wouldn't have told Fury.

As it turned out, the security cameras meant he didn't have to.

*

Fourteen years ago, Phil Coulson had the most awkward meeting he'd ever had with a superior officer, which was saying something: Phil's reputation for insubordination had been epic, once, only barely balanced out by his cool competence and fierce loyalty to service members he outranked.

Which was why, in the end, he agreed: Barton was smart and valuable and maybe one bad mission away from flaming out and taking his whole team with him. What he needed, obviously, was help; what he wanted, apparently, was someone to care about him and ground him; if he thought that person was Phil, if he thought Phil was the only one who could do that for him, it was no great hardship. It wasn't like there was anything else going on in his life at the moment, and Clint was undoubtedly attractive, and not unpleasant to be around. 

Phil still thought it was going to be a disaster of a relationship: they didn't have much in common beyond SHIELD, and with even an inch more of self-confidence, Clint would realize he could have, and would hopefully go out and find it, someone more appropriate.

Which would be fine. Which would be ideal, really: Phil had been in perhaps three serious relationships in his life, none of which he'd ended himself. Barton would inevitably do the honors, and Phil would move on, back to a simple life, or as simple a life as he could have with SHIELD.

He'd take it slow. He could do this. Everything would be fine.

*

Barton knocked on his apartment door.

Technically, as a probationary agent, he was not supposed to leave his quarters without supervision, especially at night; technically, the location of Phil's apartment was code-word classified and so far beyond Clint's clearance level that anyone who'd told him about it should probably end in The Fridge. Technically, Phil shouldn't have opened the door.

But Clint looked ill, and Phil had his orders, and so technicalities didn't seem to matter as much at the moment.

It helped that the first words out of Clint's mouth were "I'm sorry." It helped a lot. "I'm sorry about this—this afternoon, I shouldnt've…" he looked away. "I shouldn't've done that. Let just—let's just pretend it never happened?"

"What if I…" Phil said, letting himself trail off, and Clint glanced up at him: hope sparked in his eyes and Phil's first thought _wasn't_ that he was going to need to develop a better poker face (though that was true), it was that he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be giving him that hope.

"What if you…what if you what, Coulson?"

"What if I didn't want to forget about it?"

Barton's face lit up with a smile Phil had never seen, bright and all-encompassing and completely lacking in his usual cynical wariness. His whole body seemed to glow with it, and Phil resisted an urge to take a step back, to say no, he didn't mean it, he should leave and find someone who would feel the same toward him, that this was a bad idea. 

But Barton stepped closer, looked up into his eyes, then at his mouth, then back at his eyes, before going still. The world seemed to quiet around them; Phil could hear his own heartbeat, could feel each of Barton's slow, even breaths against his lips. He wouldn't move until Phil did, Phil realized, not after the way he'd reacted at the range. He dropped a hand to Barton's chest, held it there for a moment (Barton's heart was beating fast to begin with, and quickened at the gesture), and then slide it up, around the back of Barton's neck.

Barton was practically trembling by that point, and Phil was concerned, for all of a second, before Barton swooped in and kissed him again. 

It was good, better than before; Phil let himself kiss back, and Barton embraced him, wrapped his arms around Phil's waist, opened his mouth, and pressed their bodies together as tightly as they could go. His warmth leached into Phil's chest, and Phil closed his eyes, slipped his tongue into Barton's mouth, and realized just how much this was _not_ going to be fine.

*

Barton was awake. Phil could hear him humming to himself, opening the refrigerator, the cabinets. The roll of a drawer being pulled out and subsequent jangle of its contents.

Phil's head ached; so did the rest of him, actually. He should take a shower, Barton'd probably made himself at home there, too, he might as well. It would give him more time to think this through. More time to talk himself out of it. 

Phil didn't take a shower. He pulled on his boxers, his undershirt. He considered jeans, considered a suit, but given the clothes left on the floor of his bedroom, that would leave him overdressed. Make him too intimidating. Barton might bolt, which would severely undercut the value of this entire enterprise. 

_Jesus_ , what was he _doing_. He ran a hand through his hair as he walked toward the kitchen. 

He was right about Barton: barefoot, jeans, no shirt. Cooking, omelets by the look of it. Not humming anymore, and it was obvious he'd noticed Phil come in, not that he acknowledged him in any way for a few seconds more. 

"Hey," he said, without looking up from chopping with brutal efficiency. "You good with ham? Figured you wouldn't have it if you weren't, but 's still better to ask, right?"

"It's fine." 

Barton nodded to himself, and dumped whatever he'd been chopping into a waiting pan. It sizzled.

"Couldn't figure out your coffee maker, was gonna go out and buy something, but I didn't think—didn't want you to think I'd—"

"Clint." The line of Barton's shoulders, which Phil had told himself he wasn't staring at, loosened. "I'll make the coffee."

"'kay," Barton went back to humming, something familiar that Phil couldn't name. He wavered for a moment when Phil walked around him and brushed a hand across the small of his back. It was and wasn't calculated; he'd wanted to, but he'd had to let himself want to. Barton half-turned to look at him, eyelids heavy, and then turned away.

He got so far as finding the filters before he sensed Barton moving closer. It wasn't till he'd pulled out the bag of coffee grounds that he felt a warm solid presence press behind him, the hands light on his waist.

"What are you doing?" he said, calmly, as if he didn't know.

"Watching." Barton breathed against his neck, wet and hot, and Phil resisted the urge to push him away. He continued apace, ignoring the feeling of a half-naked Clint Barton pressed against his back. Mostly. 

"See?" he said, flipping the switch to start the machine percolating. "It's not hard."

Barton laughed into his neck and crowded closer, dropping one hand low on Phil's hip and running the other under Phil's shirt and across his stomach. "It's not, huh?" 

"Bart—"

"God, you're dead sexy in the morning, sir." Barton nosed at the based of his skull, then licked the side of Phil's neck, slow and purposeful. Phil turned his head, just enough, and Barton's lips brushed the corner of his mouth, seeking out a better angle. Phil let him find it, let Barton's tongue swipe against his. Pressed back against him when Barton's hand slipped lower, but dropped his head.

"Um," he said, breathless, not trying to hide it. "Something's burning."

Barton was still for a second, then: " _Shit_." He darted back to the stove, hands quick; the muscles of his back moved restlessly under scarred, tan skin as he turned off the flame. He whirled back around. "It's fine. It's fine, just...not burned, it's fine."

"Okay," Phil said, and smiled. Barton smiled back, hesitant, and rubbed the back of his neck. 

"God, I just screw everything up, huh?" It was sarcastic on its face, but there was that tremble in his smirk before it was gone. 

Phil shrugged, and went looking for plates. "Not everything." 

Clint laughed behind him, a rich, satisfied, happy sound, and got started setting the table.

*

"You don't have to do this." Phil said, and Clint looked up from his nearly empty plate.

"Make breakfast?"

"That. And...everything else." 

Clint stared at him, unimpressed. "Okay. Noted."

"Okay," Phil took a sip from his coffee, and then realized. "Thank you. For breakfast." 

"And everything else?"

"Yeah," Phil said. "Yeah, that."

*

Their first year together was a good one: one Christmas, one set of birthdays, a variety of utterly insignificant days spent with Clint basically in his back pocket.

The sex was very pleasant, not infrequent, but what Clint seemed to like most was resting his head on Phil's chest and trailing his fingers over Phil's Rangers’ tattoo. 

They slept together, and Phil got used to it too quickly: about a month in, Clint's team got called up to a three day op in Burma, during which Phil, alone at last in his familiar, comfortable apartment, got no sleep at all. 

Clint came back with a black eye, a split lip, and a grin that seemed almost too wide for his face when he saw Phil waiting for him at the tarmac. He didn't do anything obvious like run into Phil's arms: Phil had emphasized the fact that the relationship was against protocol, and Clint seemed to delight in ways of tiptoeing right up the line when it came to keeping it a secret (pressing against him when they walked down corridors together, frequenting his office and perching on his desk) without crossing it. But he did corner Phil against his office door later that afternoon, dropped to his knees, and sucked him off with unwavering dedication and focus. Then they went home, slept for almost a day and a half, and then Phil fucked him, harder and faster than he had before, driving into him so hard that the headboard knocked a hole in the wall behind it, and came as Clint did, laughing and flushed and curled around him so tightly that Phil almost couldn't breath.

Clint's last two week suspension for refusing to follow a direct order came not long after that. Phil itched to take him on as a specialist, even suggested it in one of the monthly meetings to discuss Clint's progress.

It didn't happen until six months in but after that, everything locked into place: working with a person who knew his habits and his preferences and what each subtle shift in his expression meant was intoxicatingly easy. Even when it shouldn't have been, even when he needed to remain calm and reserved in front of his team, when Clint could read him like a book and know he was lying, it didn't matter: Clint would follow him through hell and not look back if he was told to. 

And after that, after a day's (or week's, or month's) work in the middle of nowhere, getting shot at and stabbed and hit, they would come home. Clint had kept his quarters at HQ at Phil's request, in case he needed the space, but he seemed determined not to: he'd trail Phil home, rest his chin on Phil's shoulder when he tried to cook them dinner, kiss his neck when Phil eventually gave up and ordered take-out. 

Clint was smitten with him, that much was obvious, and Phil couldn't help himself: he got attached. Clint was sweet in a heartbreakingly uncertain way, as if he thought his kindness would be thrown back in his face, but he kept offering it up anyway. Phil lapped it all up, appreciated the tender kisses and post-coital cuddles and absolute trust that he did not at all deserve. He tried to be as kind, as careful, with Clint: listening to him, stroking his hair, kissing him for luck before missions when time and privacy allowed, brushing their fingers together when they didn't. Holding him close after the good ops and the bad ones. 

Clint blossomed under the attention, became confident and thoughtful where he'd just been reckless before. He still took amazing shots and stupid risks, but instead of frowning, shutting down, and then disappearing after debriefs, he began to talk back a little, justify his actions. Phil tried not to agree with him too often; didn't want to show favoritism, since their relationship was probably one of the worst kept secrets at SHIELD, and he didn't want anyone giving Clint shit about it. But Clint was strong, and he was smart, and in a few years, he'd be leading a team of his own, most likely. He was unflinchingly loyal to SHIELD, fond of his teammates, and had even made friends at HQ. Phil became very fond of him.

And one morning, Phil woke up, rolled over, smiled just to see him, and realized just what an idiot he'd been.

*

Twelve and a half years ago, Phil Coulson broke up with someone for the first time in his life.

It did not go well.

*

Barton's eyes were shining. Phil was dimly aware that the shirt he was wearing was new, and that he'd had a haircut, that he'd shaved, and that his pants were the one non-denim pair he owned. He looked wonderful, fresh and younger than usual. He also looked pissed.

"So this is it, huh?" he said, arms folded across his chest. 

"I think it's what's best. For both of us."

"You think that's what's—-" Clint sputtered. "Oh, _screw you_ , Phil. Just—just go _fuck yourself_ , okay? Just—" he whirled around, as if to leave, but then he turned back around to face him. "Don't _pretend_ for a _second_ that this isn't 100% about what _you_ want," he said, low and desperate. His hand moved, and for a second, Phil thought he was going to hit him. Instincts be damned, he wouldn't have ducked it, but Clint didn't touch him. 

He threw his drink in Phil's face instead, gave him one more wounded look, and then left.

*

The door to his office banged open. He wasn't surprised.

"You're fucking _benching_ me?" Phil sighed, and got up to shut the door. Thinking better of it, he sat back down instead, eliciting a sharp burst of laughter from Clint, who’d started pacing in front of his desk. "You really think I won't make a scene if the door's open?"

"Good afternoon, Agent Barton. I'm glad you're taking the news of your training rotation with the professionalism I've come to expect from you."

"Oh, go fuck yourself," Clint said. "Go straight to hell, you asshole. You _asshole_. You couldn't have told me in person? I had to find out from a damn email? Not even from _you_ , from—"

"Barton—"

"No!" Clint said, leaning over his desk. "No. You're such a—You owe me a damn explanation here, Phil. You owe me at least _that_."

"And I'll give you one. But I'm going to need you to calm down."

"You don't get to tell me to calm down!"

"As your SO—"

"Ah, but you're not my fucking SO anymore, are you? _Are you, Agent Coulson_?" 

Phil didn't have anything to say to that. He sat down. Clint stood there for a moment, looking at him: he was breathing hard, his eyes were sharp and cold, and his face was flushed. Then he huffed, shook his head, and collapsed into the chair opposite Phil, sitting there for the first time since they'd started the disaster that was their relationship. 

"I still outrank you," Phil said, finally, and Clint rolled his eyes.

"You're a bastard, Coulson. You are one cold-hearted son of a bitch. I can't believe I ever thought you—" Clint's face shut down. "Why am I off the team, sir?"

"You're impulsive," he said. "Unpolished."

Clint snorted. "Unprofessional?" 

"Sometimes. But the larger problem is, your skill set is uneven. You have a brilliant tactical mind—" Clint rolled his eyes again, and Phil sighed. "You do. You have so much potential, Agent Barton, and we— _I_ —haven't been doing enough to develop it."

"I shoot things, Phil. I shoot things and they go 'bang'. Or sometimes 'ouch'. There isn't much left to develop, there. Got all my developin' done early. You never seemed to mind."

"Barton."

Clint laughed again, and looked down. "Dammit, Phil.” His voice broke. “Can't you just admit that you can't stand to be in the same room with me anymore?"

"I don't feel that way," he said. 

"Yeah, you don't feel a fucking thing, do you?" Clint said, shaking his head. He stood up. "Stay away from me," he told the floor, and Phil didn't even have enough time to promise he would before Clint was out the door.

*

It wasn't that Clint did badly in Operations.

He followed directions to the letter; he put in his practice hours and completed training exercises dutifully, often in record time; he treated his instructors with distant, cold respect. Phil knew, because he was in steady contact with all of them. 

But he spoke only when spoken to, and even then, just barely. He didn't venture opinions unless explicitly asked for them. His classmates seemed to like him well enough, but there were none that would've called him a friend. 

Phil spent six months distracted and cranky, and finally caved: had Clint's training scores pulled, dropped them on Fury's desk with along with a couple of recommendations, and backed off.

Two weeks later, Clint was assigned to Strike Team Beta, where he spent his first night getting spectacularly drunk with his teammates, his first morning getting dressed down by Agent Lopez, who took no shit and had refused any offers of help from Phil, and his first mission one-handedly decimating the pack of separatists who'd taken Agent Miller hostage, after breaking his wrist to get out of a pair of apparently unpickable handcuffs. 

Phil breathed a sigh of relief, promised himself he'd lose Agent Lopez's phone number, and got on a plane to Bahrain.

*

Eleven years ago, Clint Barton jumped off a building.

It was far from the first time. It wasn't even likely to be the last time.

But it was the first time Phil hadn't been there to see it, to pick him up after, to panic at the fact that the rooftop he'd supposedly been aiming for had collapsed seconds before he reached it. He'd broken his leg in three places, cracked two of his ribs, punctured a lung, and still made the shot. 

Phil was in Paris when he heard; he was in Germany within the hour, forcing his way into a secure medical ward, beating Clint's medical transport by a matter of minutes, and almost decking Agent Michaels, who'd come along with Clint and done his level best to keep Phil from storming the operating room.

*

Agent Michaels was a good man, and Phil was glad not to have hit him. He'd just brought Phil a decently warm cup of coffee, taken one look at Phil's face, patted him on the back, and beat a hasty retreat.

He sipped his coffee. He watched Clint breath. He pretended the sick, hollow feeling in his chest was due to his fear of losing another friend, having another bright, steady light extinguished just because Phil hadn't been around to stop it. 

It was almost convincing, for all that Phil usually tried not to lie to himself.

*

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Hm?" Phil said. He hadn't been asleep. Just resting his eyes. Clint was looking at him, obviously still hazy from the painkillers, and Phil didn't resist the urge to take his hand in an attempt to ground him. His back ached from the sudden movement, but he didn't let himself wince. 

"Shouldn'tve...you know. When we broke up, and I…" Clint made an abbreviated, unfocused gesture that Phil couldn't help laugh at once he'd deciphered it.

"Threw a drink at me?"

Clint shut his eyes and nodded. Phil squeezed his hand. "It's fine. I deserved it."

"Oh, I _know_ that you...but I still shouldn'ta..."

"It really is fine." He swallowed. "Clint. It's fine, it was just water." 

"Mm." Clint squeeze his fingers back for the first time. "Yeah. Lucky thing."

"Very lucky." Phil smiled, and Clint's eyes fluttered open. 

"You know, huh?"

Phil nodded.

"Never said anything?"

Phil shrugged. It wasn't his business. "I didn't—I trusted you to tell me. If it was problem."

Clint laughed, watery and lost. "I don't have a _problem_."

"That's not—"

"I _don't_ , just—didn't want to risk one. Around you. You know?"

"I do," he said, and against his better judgment, just because Clint looked so nervous, he leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. He felt Clint shudder as he did, felt his head tip back and his fingers let go of Phil's hand and latch onto his tie. He shouldn't have, but in the long tradition of well-meaning mistakes he tended to make around Clint Barton, he did what he'd wanted to do since he’d gotten there. 

He ducked his head and felt Clint's mouth press lightly against his. Parted his lips. Felt Clint's hand relax against his chest, warm and splayed over his sternum. Brought his own hands up to frame Clint's face, and made sure to ease him back down to the pillow before kissing him again. Clint sighed, and smiled, and shuddered again, full bodied but unmistakable. Phil pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes. "I was worried about you," he said, softly.

Clint's smile broadened. "Yeah?"

Phil nodded.

"Good, 'cause I was..." Clint cleared his throat, and glanced up to check his face with a hopeful glint in his eye. "Kinda worried about you, too." And Phil got the feeling he didn't mean just that morning, or when the building collapsed, but since they'd started avoiding each other as only two people with rigorous stealth training could. And it was that, knowing _that_ , how Clint still felt—anything for him, that made him take a step back. 

Clint groaned and stared up at the ceiling. "Relax, Coulson, 'm not...I know it didn't...mean anything."

"No." He may have been sharper than he'd meant to be, because Clint was staring at him with wide eyes now. "It meant something. I care about you. That hasn't changed. It _won't_ change. But..." 

" _But_." Clint went back to staring at the ceiling. "But you don't—you didn't care about me enough."

"It wasn't that."

"Then what the hell was it?"

"I don't know." 

"That is a shitty answer, Phil."

"It's the truth," he said, and it was; he'd wanted Clint, wanted something real with him, but there was too much at stake for the both of them, for SHIELD, to tell him the truth and risk him bolting. His finality seemed to convince Clint, who sighed, and shut his eyes. 

"I miss you. A whole fucking lot, and it's not fucking fair because you're _right there_ , but it's not...it's not the same."

"I know." And he knew it was a mistake, he knew he was sending mixed signals, he knew in the long run he was making things worse, he knew, he _knew_. But he said it anyway, because it was just as true: "I miss you too."

*

He sat Clint down on the flight back to New York.

Michaels had made himself scarce, and the only sound in the make-shift conference room the steady hum of the engines.

Clint was eyeing him warily, which he couldn't really be blamed for, and Phil felt like shit for making him that uncomfortable, yet again. 

"I'm sorry," Phil said, maybe a little abruptly; Clint's eyes widened, but he kept his mouth shut. "I shouldn't have kissed you."

"Coulson, that was—that was weeks ago, you're not still—"

"It was inappropriate. Especially given our…" he trailed off, and Clint sighed.

"Our history?" Phil nodded, and Clint shook his head. "You wanna apologize for that, too?" 

Phil stopped. "Should I?"

Clint leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and scoffed. "Jesus fucking Christ, Coulson."

"I'm serious. Barton, if I ever made you feel—if you ever felt _coerced_ or—"

"Is that what you think? That you _took advantage_ of me?" Phil didn't so much as nod before Barton let out a growl and threw his hands up in frustration. "For fuck's sake. _Phil_. Jesus. You didn't take anything I wasn't _willingly offering_."

"Why? Why were you offering? Was it because you—you thought you had to? Because you—"

"Because I thought I need your _protection_? Fuck, Phil, really? I just...I _wanted_ —you, I wanted you and the fact that you _wanted me too_ was everything to me back then." 

As romantic as that was, Phil had a feeling it was kind of bullshit. He raised an eyebrow. "Everything? Really?"

"Okay, maybe not...maybe not _everything_ , I was...I got to be one of the good guys, got a roof over my head, all that was...it was good, okay, but you—" Barton stood up then, looking like he might reach out any second now, and Phil took a step back. Barton seemed to get the picture and just shook his head. "I wanted _you_ , you idiot. That's all. Did you—did you even...ever..." he looked exhausted, and Phil didn't have it in him to lie anymore.

"I did," he said, and then, basically, turned tail and ran.

*

He had, in theory, wanted to be alone. But when he recognized the limping, awkward gait approaching him, he wasn't particularly bothered by it. Clint plopped down next to him, with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, and they were side-to-side, thighs and arms and shoulders touching as their legs dangled off the platform. It seemed to be permission, and Phil was tired, and it didn't seem that much to ask. He wrapped an arm around Clint’s back, and Clint sighed, leaned his head against Phil’s shoulder. Phil pressed a kiss to his hairline.

He shut his eyes. Listened to, felt, Clint breathing and tried to match the rhythm of it. Clint rubbed his back, soothing and gentle and much kinder than Phil deserved. 

"We're going to be all right," Clint said, suddenly, and Phil couldn't think of how to respond to that. He didn't want to lie to him anymore.

*

Nine years ago, Clint Barton met Natasha Romanov for the first time, spared her life, and presumably fell in love with her, within the span of a weekend.

Phil didn't know the exact details or the precise order. It wasn't his mission. It was Sitwell's, and it was out of friendship more than professional courtesy that the first call he made when it appeared that Barton had gone off the reservation was to Phil, and not the numerous other people up the chain of command who should've been notified immediately.

Phil appealed to that same sense of loyalty in getting him to hold off on the rest of those phone calls until he'd at least had a chance to evaluate the situation, and also offered to take full responsibility for the fall out. He was never quite sure which had actually convinced Jasper, but it was a pretty busy couple of days and he had other things on his mind.

Like the knife a worryingly thin red-headed assassin was holding against his throat within seconds of him having entered their bolt-hole with his hands up. That was a pretty immediate concern. 

"Stand down, Widow," Clint said from somewhere behind them, in his utterly terrible Russian, and then switched to English. "It's just Phil. You can...you can trust him."

Phil heard her mumble something under her breath, but then she let him go and shoved him almost to the floor. Phil let himself fall all the way there, and then turn around. Sat silent as he took stock of one of the deadliest people on the planet. She didn't look it, but he figured that was about 10% of her advantage. She was pacing, blade in hand, and her nose was pretty obviously broken. He glanced at Clint, who looked a little worse for wear himself, but just shrugged. Phil raised an eyebrow, not entirely convinced, and Clint glared.

"We're fine," he snapped. 

Phil raised his hands in surrender. "Do you have a plan, Barton?"

"That's what I've got you for, Agent Coulson." 

"And if I hadn't come?"

Clint blinked at him, took a step closer, stopped. Shook his head, and then walked straight over and sat down directly in front of him. His hands (two fingers broken, bleeding bite mark on his left wrist) twitched, then dropped to his lap. "I never imagined for a second that you wouldn't, sir."

That was just playing fucking dirty, and he told Clint so. He didn't think it really got through.

*

Eight and a half years ago, Phil had the unenviable experience of watching a relationship between two highly destructive people disintegrate within very close quarters.

It was nowhere near as spectacular as everyone was expecting. 

It was during a mission. The safe house was as secure as it could be, but they all knew better than to call attention to themselves in the way a no-holds-barred screaming match inevitably would. 

That may actually have made it worse, the fact that they had to fight in whispers, the fact that Clint was obviously reluctant to even let _him_ to know what was going on and that Natasha, whatever else her feelings were on the matter, was willing to abide by that and went silent and cold the minute he entered a room. He tried to stay out of their way, and as a result was not entirely certain where they stood as the week went on.

The only way he knew for sure they'd ended it was that one night, Clint moved all of his belongings out of the room he'd been sharing with Natasha and into the one Phil had claimed as his own. 

It wasn't like any of them had a proper bed, but two days later, after a particularly terrible day in the freezing rain, while Natasha was taking a shower, Clint crawled over to Phil's side of the room and squirmed under his pile of blankets and kissed him, hard. 

Phil bore it silently, even kissed back, but when Clint tried to snake a hand down his chest and then lower (fuck, he was _hard_ , but Clint's body and his warmth was so familiar and _missed_ , he couldn't help it), Phil flipped them over. Slid under the blankets. Sucked Clint off as efficiently as he could, swallowed, crawled back up, and pulled Clint up tight against his side.

"Okay?" he said, and his voice sounded rougher than it ever had to his own ears. He felt Clint shudder, then nod, burrow closer, and eventually fall asleep. 

The next morning, he knocked on Natasha's door, and was only a little bit surprised that she opened it. Her hair was up, her make up was flawless, and she might as well have been wearing armor for how sharp the lines of her overcoat were. 

"Yes?" she said.

"How are you?" 

Her lips pursed. "Would you be asking Barton that?"

"Barton would tell me." Or show him. Subtle, Clint was not. 

"Would he." Natasha shook her head. "I'm fine. Thank you."

*

It'd only taken a second. But Natasha was down, hit by a dying burst of energy from the security system they'd hastily disabled, Barton was panicking, and the door was sliding closed and with it any chance of retrieving the suitcase full of anthrax spores they'd spent the last two weeks tracking down.

Barton looked at him, then at Natasha, and Phil nodded. Barton was by her side in an instant, and Phil was running through a door into unsecured territory he wasn't entirely prepared for. Story of his life.

It worked out as well as it could have. 

When he came back, innocuous rolling suitcase in tow, Natasha was sitting up and cursing, and Barton was rubbing his cheek, which had already flared red, and bleeding from his bottom lip. Phil was almost afraid to ask.

"Are we...good?" 

"Fine, sir," Natasha said, flipping her way to standing. Barton nodded, staring dedicatedly at the floor. It was good enough for Phil.

*

When Phil found her, it wasn't because he was looking exactly. And it was impossible to imagine that she hadn't heard him approach, but she seemed willing to have company on the bench, and he sat for a moment in silence. Watched the grey waves of the Baltic Sea, the tiny boats bobbing in the distance.

Out of the corner of his eye, he also watched her. 

It was difficult to tell how old Natasha really was. He'd seen her pull off fourteen with disturbing ease, but she'd just easily been a thirty-five year old heiress when they'd needed her to be. At that moment, she looked about twenty-two, a recent college grad taking a year off to backpack across Europe. Maybe one who'd just broken up with her boyfriend because of the long distance and the upcoming reality of their lives.

Phil wasn't foolish enough to believe that this was anything less than facsimile vulnerability she was showing, that for Natasha, it was still easier to pick a mask than to go without, but he respected it enough to choose one of his own and play along.

"I hate the ocean," he said, and her eyes slid to him. "I know this is the sea, but I was just thinking about it, and I do, the ocean's terrible."

Natasha nodded as if this were somehow profound. "Can't swim?"

"Of course I can swim," he tried to sound offended. "It's just...the vastness of it, I suppose. It's so easy to get lost."

"I see."

"I'm from the Midwest. My family didn't travel, so I never saw one until I was..." _almost your age_ , he wanted to say, but that seemed too on point and he honestly had no idea. "After I'd joined the Army. It was kind of a shock."

Natasha nodded, slowly, and then turned to stare at the waves. "I had an instructor who'd always try to teach in metaphors."

"Oh?"

"He didn't last long. We all thought he was a fool," she looked back at him. "You aren't a fool."

"I try not to be."

They held each other's gaze for a few seconds, and carefully looked away at the same time.

"I couldn't give him what he wanted." The words were precise, tinged with frustration, and Phil did wonder, for a second, about just how much they might have in common. But it seemed unlikely, and Phil kept staring straight ahead.

"Neither could I," he said. He let a full minute pass. "May I ask you something?"

She nodded.

"What do _you_ want?"

Natasha gave a brief, tuneless hum. When Phil turned to look at her, she shrugged. "A boat," she said, almost flippantly, and Phil smiled. She smiled back at him, hesitant and real enough. "What about you, Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD? There must be something you want."

"A mint condition Captain America #7 trading card from the 1944 run." It was the first thing that came to mind, and it just so happened to be true. "Then I'll be half way to a complete set."

Natasha snorted beside him, and then laughed and laughed and laughed.

*

Barton saw them come back together, and stood there, betrayal warring with panic across his face, for a full five seconds before turning tail and stomping off to the roof.

Phil was about to go after him, but Natasha laid a hand on his arm, shook her head, and went herself.

*

That night, Barton came back to Phil's room, crowded against his side, then seemed to think better of it and straddled him.

"Are you pissed?" he said. Phil felt he might have been projecting. "About—about today, with Natasha, I'm not—I didn't—"

"Clint." Phil wrapped his hand around Barton's waist, and Barton stopped talking and just stared at him. His expression was not unlike the one he'd worn the time he'd been stabbed between the ribs, and Phil had to take a moment to force the memory away. "I'm not pissed."

*

Over the next five months, he slept with Barton no less than forty times, twice a week on average.

It wasn't a return to anything. Barton spent the night sometimes, but when he did there was no quiet domesticity of early mornings in the kitchen, and the weekends remained Phil's own. 

Sometimes Phil wondered if this is what they would have been if he'd waited. If he'd said no, if he'd just been his friend, his partner, for a few years without the mess between them. If they would have just fallen into this pattern of comfort and companionship without the complication of a relationship, or the guilt of secrets. It could have been worse. 

Phil told himself he was happy. 

He told himself he was even happier when Clint stopped dropping by.

*

It'd been a rough day. Three months of surveillance work had turned out to be in vain, and no fewer than seventeen civilians were dead. They wouldn't have exact numbers till the morning, when they finished sifting through DNA samples. Sitwell was in medical. Fury was pissed. Phil was...Phil was _tired_. And he hadn't seen Barton in weeks, and for once, given everything, it didn't seem that much to ask.

He may have also been drunk. Which. Well, it had been a problem, Barton hadn't exactly looked pleased but he'd let Phil in to his quarters. Let Phil kiss him, let Phil get pathetically sentimental and vocal and honest. About how much he'd missed him. How much he'd wanted him. How much it mattered to Phil, that Clint liked him, he didn't need anything else, that was enough, because Clint was gorgeous and perfect and so very, very decent. 

Phil thought it was entirely possible that Clint kissed him mostly to shut him up, but in the back of his mind, he thought that was a mercy, because god knew what else he might have said had he been allowed to continue. 

When Phil woke up the next morning, fully clothed and thoroughly hungover, Clint was sitting on the floor, back against the door. Watching him, blue eyes narrowed, cool and curious. 

"I'm seeing someone." 

Phil swallowed and let his head fall back. "Okay."

"Yeah. I—" he heard Clint sigh. "I shoulda said something."

"It's...none of my business?" he glanced over, and Clint was running a hand through his already tousled hair and not looking particularly impressed. 

"I like her. A lot." Clint said, his tone even, his eyes clear and bright and honest. "I really do. And she—"

"Barton," he got out, and sat up. It was a mistake, sent his head spinning, but he closed his eyes for a moment and gripped the edge of the mattress to steady himself. "I'm glad for you."

"Are you?" 

He forced his eyes open. " _Yes_."

"Last night, you said—"

" _Last night_ , I was...I needed someone. It could've...it had to be someone I...trusted, so—"

"So you came here." Clint smirked at him, and then hopped up. 

"Yes." He watched Clint approach, slowly, as if trying not to startle him. Kept still when Clint dropped his hand onto his shoulders, and stood over him.

"You still need—someone?"

Phil dropped his gaze to the floor. "I'm fine. Thank you."

A hand under his chin tilted it up. "Okay. Just, uh. Kinda your last chance, here?"

He had to laugh, and Barton grinned. 

"I'm good," he said, feeling almost entirely normal. Barton looked at him, really stared, for a few seconds more, and his smile softened. His hands came up to frame Phil's face and to hold him in place.

"You," Barton cleared his throat. "You really are, you know that?" he said, and kissed him. Closed-mouthed, chaste, but very real. 

Phil knew a goodbye when he got one.

*

Seven years ago, Clint Barton was in love, and Phil felt nothing so much as relief.

Clint was happy, really, _truly_ happy, without him, within SHIELD, and they were still friends, and he still trusted Phil so much it hurt, so much that it was him Clint asked about rings, about proposing, about whether it was a good idea to leap into this kind of commitment when the world was what it was, and human beings were so fragile.

Phil talked him down. Rings were a symbol, proposals should be honest, and human frailties were no reason to avoid human happiness. 

Halfway through that conversation, it occurred to Phil that maybe this was best time to tell him. Not the whole truth, he wouldn't do that to Fury, wouldn't do it to SHIELD, but part of it, enough to be honest. Enough to stop feeling quite so guilty. 

In the end, he told himself that's why he didn't do it: it wouldn't have been about Clint, it would have been about assuaging his own feelings, and it'd be a hell of a thing to drop on a guy about to make the biggest decision of his life. 

He and Natasha threw him a bachelor party instead. It was the least they could do.

*

Six and a half years ago, Clint Barton became a widower, and for the first time in almost ten years, Phil was sure they were going to lose him.

For six weeks, he went off the grid, and Phil and Natasha spent all of them scouring safe houses across the country and, failing that, abandoned buildings in every collapsing economy and political hotspot they could think of. 

The end of week six rolled around, and Phil went home. Not because he was giving up, but because he needed to regroup, and because Natasha was, if possible, more exhausted than he was and she refused to rest until he did. 

He opened the door to his apartment, and Barton was there. 

Phil really should have known he would be.

*

Six years, four months, and two weeks ago, Clint was waiting for him on his couch when he got home.

And then he wasn't, he was on his feet and he was kissing him and Phil pulled back, just once, to say he didn't think this was a very good idea, which was clearly a lie.

"I don't give a _fuck_ what you think, Phil." This was also pretty clearly a lie. 

Clint kissed him again. Phil pushed him against the wall and gave Clint everything he thought he needed.

Clint spent the night. He slept; Phil didn't. Instead, he thought about why Clint had come to him instead of to Natasha. The likeliest option was that Natasha would've been strong enough to turn Clint down. He couldn't quite bring himself to regret that he hadn't been. 

After that, there was a new equilibrium: Barton was back but he wasn't really, they didn't fuck again but sometimes their shoulders brushed, and Natasha was quietly, vividly furious for exactly one week and then Phil found them curled up together on a sparring mat. Sweaty and sleeping, bruised but not broken, and that was apparently that.

Time moved on.

*

Five years and ten months ago, Clint went under deep cover for almost seven months, and Phil thought about what he might understand when he came back.

About the truth inside the lies a person told, the ones that had to be there to make a story stand up to any kind of scrutiny. The weight of keeping the real from the false and how sometimes the real seeped through, but sometimes the false became the truth you wanted. 

Phil thought about it. Thought, later, that it might have been the closest he ever got to telling him.

But when Clint got off the plane, he draped one arm around Phil's shoulders, and the other around Natasha's. He was sunburned, smelled of salt and the sea and things Phil would never have associated with Clint, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was a reminder that everything he'd once known about Clint wasn't everything he'd ever be. 

"My two favorite people _in the world_ ," Clint mumbled, voice weak from disuse. He kissed Phil's cheek, then ducked to kiss Natasha's, putting him slightly off balance. Phil wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him and Clint beamed, his side warm and jostling against Phil's. "Man, am I glad to be home."

Phil didn't tell him. 

He began to understand that he never would.

*

Five years ago, the wind was making it very hard to see anything, much less say it.

But he wanted to do both. Wanted to keep his eyes open even though they teared, to get a good look at Clint Barton, ten years older than when he'd first met him. His hair was shorter now, his eyes heavier, his hands rougher. He moved more slowly. Not by much, not so that anyone else would notice, but Phil remembered ever break and sprain and bruised rib, and he knew what to look for. 

Clint was chewing the corner of his lip like he did when calculating trajectories. Not for use in the field, usually, but because it tended to calm him down. 

"Five minutes." Natasha called from the cockpit, and glanced back. Phil caught her eye, and nodded. 

"Barton," he said, trying to keep his tone even, but he had to shout to be heard over the roar of the wind. 

Clint glanced at him, then dropped his gaze and smiled. 

"Not nervous, are you, sir?"

"Eyes on me, Agent Barton." Clint looked up, and he reached out. Clint startled, which was in itself amazing, but kept his eyes on Phil's and that was when he _knew_ , for sure. Clint seemed to figure it out around the same time and glanced down as if assuring himself of something. The corner of his lip twitched, but he obviously suppressed it. 

"You are holding my hands, Agent Coulson."

"I know."

Clint laughed, loud and hard and like it was being pulled out of him, more than a little painfully, but when it ended he was beaming. 

"Phil, you picked _one hell of a time_."

"I'm sorry." He wasn't. He couldn't stop smiling enough to pretend otherwise. "I just thought you should know."

"Know what?" Clint grinned, and leaned closer. 

Phil ducked in to meet him. "I'm in love with you," he said, as quietly as he could while still being audible. Clint's eyes closed, and he pressed their foreheads together. Their knees bumped, their fingers intertwined, and Phil closed his eyes too. 

"Go in one minute, Hawkeye," Natasha's voice cut through, entirely professional, and Phil felt Clint sigh. 

"Okay," he said. " _Okay_." 

He stood abruptly, went to checking over the straps of his parachute. Kept still as Phil's fingers followed the same paths, and looked up at him when he was done. 

"You owe me a fucking drink, Phil."

"You mean the one you threw in my face?"

"I didn't exactly get to drink it, did I?" Clint grin was brilliant, and everything he'd ever wanted, and then it faded. "Phil, you know I—"

"Clint. It's fine. I know." 

Clint nodded at him, and then turned away, got in position by the door. "You know I never really stopped!" he threw over his shoulder, as casually conversational as he could be while starring out over a dark expanse of Eastern European countryside and shouting.

"Me neither!" he yelled back, because at this point, all he wanted to give Clint was the truth. He saw Clint nod, and bite his lip, and then out of his peripheral vision he saw Natasha signaling him that it was time. He stepped up next to Clint, squeeze his shoulder, and said, "Ready?"

Clint grinned without look at him. "Born ready, sir!" And then he was gone. 

Phil watched him fall, impassive until he saw the chute open, and then allowed himself a smile.

*

Two years ago, the world began to change.

It was terrifying and amazing and complicated, and it sometimes felt like Clint, who was all of those things and more, was the only thing keeping him sane.

Phil asked him to move in. Clint was under the impression that he already had. 

The apartment stayed about the same.

*

Six months ago, a couple of weeks before everything went to hell, Clint crawled into the cramped single bed in what was technically Phil's quarters, still smelling of dry New Mexico air. His lips were cold, his lungs full of cool air and grumblings about _fucking boring underground missions babysitting a fucking box, I swear to god, Phil. _

Phil did his best to warm him up.

After, flat on his back and soft around the edges, Clint glanced at him, and said, very quickly, very quietly, "You wanna get married?" 

Phil froze. 

That was completely, honestly, the truth of it. He froze, and Clint looked like he'd been sucker-punched. 

"Jesus, Phil," he said, turning away, and flinched when Phil reached for him, much too late.

"I—"

"Just say fucking _no_ if you don't, I—"

"I don't want to say no." It may have been the truest thing he'd ever said to Clint, for all the good it did him. 

Clint flipped back around to stare at him. "But you don't want to say yes either."

"I just...I need some time, okay?" he tried to be soothing, but his own internal panic was probably not conducive to that. 

Clint laughed, and groaned, and flopped onto his back. "It's been fifteen fucking _years_ , Coulson. How much more time could you—" and he groaned again, and pressed a hand across his eyes. "At some point we're gonna run out of time, babe." 

Phil had known he was right. He hadn't actually needed the universe to prove it to them both quite so spectacularly.

*

Two months ago, Clint told him that he understood. That Phil had made a tough choice in a difficult time, that it hadn't been personal. That it was his job to make judgments like that, and Clint had never known him to make truly bad calls. That he had always and would always trust him as a handler. That the others would come around, given time, that it was difficult for them to understand what it'd been like at SHIELD back then. What Clint had been like. What he'd needed.

What Clint hadn't done, during the whole conversation, was look him in the eye.

What Phil hadn't said, once the conversation was over, was that he was sorry.

*

Two months ago, Phil Coulson resigned his position as liaison to the Avengers Initiative, called in a favor from Nick Fury, and took off.

No one made any move to stop him.

*

Six days ago, Natasha Romanov had shown up at his door, taken a long, steady look at him, and broken his nose.

Then she'd helped him set it, sat silently on the couch with him for over an hour, shook her head, and said, "I'm glad you're not dead."

His mouth had still tasted mostly of blood, and his head had not stopped aching since he'd woken up, but he'd had worse days. "Thank you."

They'd had dinner, mostly in silence, and then:

"Barton's glad too."

*

Today, Phil has a drunk Tony Stark in his living room, and he's apologizing for...something. Oh, that's right, ruining Phil's life. He lets him get on with it.

"I didn't _know_ ," Tony's groaning. "It seemed like such a good idea _at the time_ , you know? I mean, c'mon, you've _gotta know_. I just thought…we saw you. On the—on the internet. And it was. Like. Maybe...maybe it help us find you and..."

"Well, it did," he says, eminently sensible, and Tony moans. 

"Coulson. _Phil_. You are so _full of shit_ , I _know_ , okay, _I fucking know_."

"Everyone knows, Tony." _Mostly thanks to you_ , Phil could say, but he doesn't really blame him. Much.

"Not about _that_ , you asshole. And seriously, asshole move, SHIELD is so _fucked up_. Why would you keep _files_ about _that_ , seriously."

"It was a long time ago, it's not— it's not like that anymore." He doesn't know why he feels so defensive. The minute he can get away with it, he's resigning and going to ground. 

"Whatever," Tony grunts. " _Whatever_. I know about the _other_ thing. One _no one else's_ figured out." Tony grins, and Phil sighs.

"What are you talking about, Stark?"

"The _numbers_ , man. It was alll...all fucking numbers, right? To evaluate all those little recruits, there's a formula, right? And I checked, and I counted, and I looked at your notes, very nice, by the way, super _neat_. And you fucking _fudged the numbers_ for him, and in all this time _no one else_ has figured that out."

"You must be so very proud."

"I _really_ am." 

"Have you told anyone?" 

Tony looks over at him with wide eyes. "Why do I get the feeling you're about to kill me right now?"

"Stark."

" _No_ ," he says, quiet and harsh and insulted. "No, I haven't, not after— but you _should_ , okay, he needs to _know_ , okay, that—"

"Why?"

" _Why_? What do you mean, _why_?" 

"I mean, what good would it do?"

"Well, you could fess up on one big honking secret you've been keeping, show you _can_ tell him the truth, maybe he'd forgive you."

"Maybe I don't want him to forgive me."

" _Phil_. Shut up. Seriously, you can't self-loathe a self-loather, okay?"

"That doesn't even—"

"You _think_ you don't want him to forgive you because _you think_ you don't deserve it. Him. Being happy," Tony waves his arms around. "You are _so full of shit_ , Phil. Love him. Be with him. Marry the guy, or don't, but c'mon, live happily ever after or as near as we can get, _Jesus_ , because life is fucking _awful_ without the people you love. And Phil?" 

"Yes?"

"You deserve better than a fucking awful life."

"Okay," Phil says, after a moment. "So do you, Tony."

"Pfft," Tony said, and made a shooing motion with his hand. "Learned that one already, thanks bunches."

*

Tony's snoring on his couch and Phil can't sleep. His phone is heavy in his hand, warm from his body heat, and it's much, much too easy to dial.

*

Tony Stark is still on his couch when Clint shows up, but he's asleep and Clint just shakes his head like he's already used to Tony being in inconvenient places when he'd really rather have his privacy, and zeroes in on Phil.

"Clint—" he tries, but Clint raises his hand and Phil stops.

"Listen to me," he says, eyes wide and blue and frantic. "I've liked you since Fury introduced us. Since before— before you even knew or cared who I was. And I've— I have _known_ you for _a decade and a half_ , and I know I would have fallen in love with you anyway. So I've decided, I don't care. I don't care how it happened, I don't care why, because I've been in love with you for almost fifteen years and you—I don't want to spend another day like this, wondering, watching you push me away when it isn't what _either_ of us wants. So if this isn't...if you _don't_ want this then right now is the perfect fucking time to start being honest with me. Can you do that? For once? Can you please fucking do that? For...for me?"

It may be the most Phil's heard him say at one time in more than a decade. He has to sit down. Clint follows him, leans over him after he's collapsed into an armchair. Puts his hands on Phil's cheeks, and then slides them down onto Phil's shoulders. He can feel Clint's thumbs pressing lightly against his pulse.

"Phil?"

"I have _always_ cared about you," and before Clint's expression can fall, he continues. "Since your...since your file came across my desk, and I hadn't even met you, but I had to decide. Whether they were going to try and bring you in or. Or not." Clint nods, like he understands, but Phil isn't quite sure he does. "All the variables said not. You were...you were unpredictable, we didn't _know_ , it wasn't worth the— by all the metrics we had, you weren't—"

"I wasn't worth the risk," Clint says, slowly, and now he does seem to get it. He doesn't let go of Phil's shoulders. "But you said I was."

"Yes."

"You lied. To Fury. To SHIELD. For me. Before you even knew me." Phil nods. Swallows. Clint is watching him very closely. "Why?"

"I honestly don't know." Gut instinct, mostly. Certainty that even if Barton went bad they could contain him, but he's sure as hell not going to say that now, even though it did prove ultimately true.

Clint smiles at him. "Okay. Am I the only one you did that for?"

Phil shakes his head. 

"You're a good person," Clint says, and kisses him. It's soft and familiar and very welcome. It's also brief. Clint pulls away slowly, though. "You saved my life." 

"You don't owe me anything."

"I never thought for a second that I did, sir." Clint grins. He slides his hands further down Phil's shoulders, and leans in again. Phil feels the press of warm lips against his throat around the same time he realizes he's now got a lap full of Clint Barton. Clint pulls back enough to be able to meet his eyes. "But the thing is, you saved my life, I figure it's kind of your job to make it worthwhile. So really, way I figure it, _you_ owe me."

"I do?" He runs his hands over Clint's thighs as they straddle his own, and smiles. 

"Yeah. But I guess I've saved _your_ life a couple of times since then," Clint drops a quick kiss against his open mouth, then retreats again. "So I kind of owe you the same."

"Okay," Phil says, grabs the front of his shirt, and pulls him back into another kiss. 

This one lasts a little longer. Clint's hands cradle his head and his mouth is slow and searching, and he breathes into Phil, and Phil thinks that maybe he has died after all. 

"Oh for the love of— _guys_ , I am _right here_ , okay, _jeez_. Get a _room_ or _something_."

"You mean like the living room of _our own apartment_ , Stark?" Clint grumbles, but he doesn't even bother turning around and doesn't see Tony flip him off before stumbling to the bathroom. Once he's gone, Phil leans up to kiss Clint again, quickly, and then falls back.

"You'd better get off," he says, and Clint smirks. Phil presses a hand against his mouth before he can even try. "No."

Clint rolls his eyes, but complies. "Fine," he huffs, good-natured, and looks like he's about to head off to the kitchen.

And just like that, it's just like any other morning at home: Clint going to make coffee, Phil wondering just how he'd gotten so lucky. It doesn't seem fair. It doesn't seem _right_. 

Phil grabs his hand before he's too far away for it. "Wait. I—" he clears his throat. "You are always worth the risk to me, okay?" 

Clint squeezes his hand. "Right back at you, sir."

**Author's Note:**

> _**[Clint/Coulson, angst, fix it, relationship started in a consensually dubious way, teen movie story.](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/11065.html?thread=24416825#t24416825)** _
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _So, long before the Avengers were a thing, Clint joined SHIELD. It becomes apparent really quickly that Clint has been pretty fucked up by his past and doesn't trust anyone, with valid reason. Fury orders Coulson to begin a relationship with him. The plan is to teach him that he is worthy of affection/attention and to say when he needs medical help etc. as well as teaching him that there are people who he can trust and rely on. Coulson, like the good little agent he is, follows these orders but, in teen movie reference #3860 he actually falls in love with Clint. Deciding it would do more harm than good to tell the 'funny story' of how they got together, he never brings it up and they proceed as any other couple._
> 
> _Until Coulson dies. Maybe Fury says something about how they got together, maybe Coulson has paperwork in his office which Clint clears out that refers to this, whatever. I don't really want anyone to be a dick to Clint about this. They all know that they are 'really' together and have been for some time now, it just somehow comes out. Clint, naturally, is devestated, questioning everything about his relationship._
> 
> _Then Coulson isn't really dead and comes back, except now Clint knows and is furious, believing everything they had was a lie. And Coulson fixes it, proves his steadfast devotion and they live happily ever after._
> 
> Anyway, this fic has been in the works for a long time (so long ago that AOS wasn't even a thing yet when I started), and I only finished it now because I was avoiding something else. But special thanks goes out to [trippypeas](http://trippypeas.tumblr.com/) for reading over it and assuring me it was at least worth posting. Thank you, darling <3


End file.
